Headstones
by IvoryAlchemist
Summary: -What are you gonna do when all the people you love die away?- What Logan's left with fifty years from now. Rogan.


_What are you gonna do when all the people you love die away?_

He was a wanderer by nature. And it was only a fool who fought his own nature.

_What are you gonna do when all the world's turned its back on you?_

The Wolverine stands with his hands plunged in his worn jean pockets and wisps of cigar smoke curling around his spiked hair, same old leather jacket hanging from his broad shoulders like a cliche. He likes to hang on to the things he's got -- to wear the same damn old jacket for twenty years ain't saying much when you've been around two centuries. Not when all the things that matter seem to slip through his fingers like he's trying to hold onto water.

He knows it don't look good when even the headstones of people you once called Kid are falling to pieces, but that's what he's faced with every time he stops by to take a look at the world he used to know. Things ain't the way they used to be -- School's nothing but a heap of rumble, blown to oblivion during one of the many wars he fought in. It all seems so stupid now, so futile; kids fighting and dying so many times over all he remembers are blurs of pain and regret. How many times he seen the world erupt into war like a volcano with all the brave young's blood frothing up like hot lava, spilling down the sides; endless waves, on and on and on through time, learning from mistakes and then making them again -- all the while him standing, watching, sometimes fighting; for what, he's long forgotten -- ain't important, anyway. All that matters is who's won this war.

He looks down at Marie D'Ancanto's gravestone, remembers her fighting with courage and strength, brown hair whipping and pooling around her like a sweet caramel sea, sending out attacks that aren't hers to give, using powers that aren't hers to have -- so gentle, so bright, so passionate -- that finally in his sad, troubled life he'd found somebody who'd let him love them. And he had believed when The Enemy felled her that it was alright because they had won the war -- believing what they had always been telling him -- _what's one life when your saving thousands?_

_What's just one more life?_

Well now he knows just what her life is worth: worth a hundred years of war, worth every war in all of goddamned history. Worth this whole god-forsaken planet. Worth every crummy mountain top and deep blue sea, worth every white picket fence, worth every false dream and disillusioned hope, worth even the finest of cigars -- what's one life worth?

One life's worth _everything. _

The Wolverine steps back and stares down with vague eyes at the cigar that's nothing more than a stub. Too bad. They never do last long enough. He turns his back and makes his way to his old pickup truck, camper holding onto its rear like a kid holding his momma's shirt walking down the sidewalk, clamors into the driver's seat and revs the engine.

Time to get on outta this old place, anyway. He's like the sea -- always keep on rolling, lots to look at but nothing to hang onto. He's just too damn old to hold still.

_What are you gonna do when everything worth living for ain't living anymore?_

Some lady at a gas station gets to making small talk -- name's Flora, he guesses, by the bold-faced name tag hanging off her threadbare polo shirt -- thinking she can ask him questions cause she's old and lonely and he's just some young thing, anyway.

You been on the road long? She blinks her gummy eyelashes, pupils dark and iris pale as she looks up at him; bored but hopeful. And she thinks her life is futile.

A while. He drawls, puffing on a cigarette and fumbling at a wallet that's coming apart at the edges. The lady drags her teeth over her lower lip and arches her drawn-on eyebrows.

Time for a new wallet, huh?

No, he growls -- a real growl too, like the kind you might hear from some mangy stray dog backed into a corner -- Ain't nothing wrong with the one I got.

Lady takes a moment to watch (what else is there to do at this damn job, anyway?) and sees some initials, barely visible after years and years of wear, stitched into the side. _A.M.D._

Hope you find it, mister, She calls to his retreating form; he stiffens and pivots around on one booted foot.

The hell you talkin' bout? Find what?

She shrugs and turns back to her trash magazine, having seen what kind of man he is from a mile away -- sadness rolling offa him like too much perfume.

Whatever it is you been looking for.

All she hears next is the familiar whoosh of a closing door, the purr of an old beat up engine; the poor lonely wanderer's off again into the blur of night and for a moment she feels grateful for this job -- always helps to see a fella who's even worse off than you.

_What are you gonna do when time has left you behind?_

He bites off a chunk of beef jerky, his old beat-up pickup truck rumbling on down the road through the blistering heat of a Mississippi summer. He's the only one around anymore that's got a car -- everybody else gliding on past in all manner of contraptions, vehicles that are above and beyond such things as gasoline and harmful emissions. Plain strangers watch him with curious eyes as he rolls through their neighborhoods and cities, and he's been looking at faces so long they're all indistinguishable now. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his glove department, yellowed from sun and torn up at the edges. A name and address.

He crawls to halt on the side of the road, pouncing out of his truck like a cat, still as agile and strong as he's ever been. He lumbers up in that odd swagger of his, pounds his fist against the door. A mousy man in his mid thirties answers, beady eyes wet and blinking.

Who're you? He asks, voice nothing but a whine with a pinch of southern twang.

Here to see a feller named Cody. Cody Williams?

A little old man pokes on up to the door, wrinkled grey face hanging off his skull for dear life, wisps of white hair falling limp and defeated around his inch-thick spectacles. Hello? Do I know you?

Wolverine shakes his head, licking his lips and staring at the ground to think of something to say. In years past he may have been uncomfortable, awkward; he's beyond all such things now.

Naw, you don't know me, Mr. Williams. Do you remember a girl who lived here long time ago? Marie? Anne-Marie D'Ancanto?

Wolverine realizes distantly that's the first time he's said her name in some fifty years. Strange how time'll do that do ya -- been thinking about her every day but she never made her way past his lips.

The old man's face registers surprise in all those weary lines, ancient brown eyes sparking to life again as his old engine of a brain coughs and sputters awake.

Why, yes. I remember her. First girl I ever dated. First girl I kissed! He shakes his old head and laughs. She had quite a gift, that girl. Her skin could do the most remarkable things. The old man looks at the Wolverine in confusion. But you didn't know her! From what I here, she's been dead years and years. You would've only been a child!

Wolverine nods and runs his tongue along the uneven ridges of molar teeth, a strange and interesting journey. Yessir. Well, actually, I did know her. I been around a while longer then you'd think. And I was wondering if you knew if she had any family? Anybody still -- alive?

The old man wheezes and trembles, thinking hard; recollecting. Well, come to think of it, young man, I think she does. See, I remember before she left: she had a younger sister, a very dear thing who loved her very much, who always kept up contact with her. And that sister has a daughter, if I'm not mistaken. The old man leans out his front door and points with a wobbly, rickety finger down the street. Lives just a few blocks that-a-way, if I remember correctly. Name's Molly Pierce.

The Wolverine jerks his head in thanks and leaves, driving on down to the houses he pointed towards and knocking door-to-door until he finds the right one. A pretty brown-eyed woman, probably a good forty or fifty years, opens up with a smile as bright as the sun.

How can I help ya today, mister?

Wolverine feels a sharp bolt of excitement shocking his old soul back to life as he sees those familiar eyes, and he pulls a wad of papers and a little book out of his jacket pocket. 'Ello, miss. You Molly Pierce?

She knits her brow in confusion and nods. Yes, I am. How'd ya know me?

Wolverine glances over his shoulder and shrugs. I was an old friend of your aunt's, miss. Marie D'Ancanto? A good old friend a hers.

The woman's face opens in plain shock. Auntie Marie? Why, she's been dead for fifty years! You don't look a day over thirty, mister. I was only a child when she passed.

He shrugs again and holds out the little book and scraps of paper with it. These was things a hers, Says Wolverine. Diaries and all that. Drawings. I know it's been a long time -- thought I should give 'em back to family. Some jewelry in there, too, if I recall. A nice old watch. Thought you might want it.

The woman blinks and grins again, nodding. Alright, then. Alright. Thank you, mister. Very kind. She accepts them and laughs sweetly. You're an interesting fella, that's for sure. But my Auntie was an interesting woman!

Wolverine's mouth quirks up at the edges. That she was, miss.

The woman steps back and he can see inside her house -- pleasant, small, tidy. Warm, with shafts of sunlight dancing through the windows.

Come on in and have a drink. Say, how did you know my Auntie?

He considers for a moment, looks out on past his car into the flat endless scape that is Mississippi. And at last: Thank you. You got any beer, actually?

She laughs again and shakes her head, long hair rippling down past her shoulders. Sorry, mister. I don't. Got lemonade, though. It's real good. Secret family recipe.

He likes lemonade, which he knows is a bit uncharacteristic. The Kid always made it for him -- best he'd ever tasted. He sips this lady's brew, he knows it's the same. Been damn near sixty years and he still remembers.

She sits him down on the couch and crosses her legs in her armchair, fixing her eyes on his face. So how did you know my Auntie?

Knew her through the school she went to. The organization she worked for, too. You ever heard of the X-Men?

The woman's brown eyes widen. The X-Men! Yes, of course I know them. She was one of their members, wasn't she? Ooh, are _you _an X-Man too?

He laughs roughly and shakes his head. I was, once. Long _long _time ago. Quit a couple a years 'for Marie was killed.

Did you love her? I mean, were you two lovers?

The woman couldn't miss how his jaw locks up, his eyes grow hard as flint.

That was all a while ago. Different time. Don't matter now.

So you were, then. She smiles kindly. Did you have any children with her?

He's pulled into memories then, old, dusty memories cob-webbed with time and buried under miles and miles of grief. No, she didn't have no kids with me. 'Nother feller she had a little boy with. Long after I left the scene.

She reaches up and touches his face, gently -- reaching out to him through all his savage exteriors out of pure generosity. So he spends the night with her, those familiar brown eyes and drawling accent proving too much to resist. She even tastes like her aunt -- salty and sweet, like dessert flowers, their sun-bleached faces tilted up in heady reverence towards the throbbing sun.

It's been a long time since he was close to another person. Too long. Far, far too long.

But morning comes soon enough and he's off, his journey half-way complete. It's been a real long wait, but he's ready now, after seeing that ol' niece of hers. He pulls out a phonebook at some lonely looking phone-booth in nowhere, Kansas, his long graceful fingers tracing down the endless army of little black letters until he finds one familiar.

_Julian Charles Remy LeBeau. _

Hers and Gambit's only child, a demure little boy with blood red eyes and a gentle heart. Wolverine spends the next few days driving on down to Louisiana where his father came from, ignoring all the strange looks people give him as they sit out on their porches, dogs panting at their feet, cigarettes hanging from their chapped lips -- New Orleans as its finest.

The house he's been looking for is huge and ornate, and he would have felt out of place on the perfectly manicured lawn had Wolverine ever been sensitive to such things. As it is, he stomps over the bushes and flowers and slams his foot several times against the door.

A young woman answers, eyes startled and dark as night, skin black as ebony. Wolverine pulls a cigar out of his mouth.

Looking for Julian LeBeau. Tell 'im I'm a friend a his mother's.

The woman disappears back into the mansion and the man himself takes her place. He's strikingly handsome, black hair cropped short against his head and with the same red eyes Wolverine always remembered him by. He's well into his sixties but doesn't show it, his mutation apparently granting him some reprieve from aging.

Wolverine. I see you haven't changed. So good to see you again, old friend.

The Wolverine snorts and shakes his head. Just as smooth talking as his old man.

Yeah, right. Good to see you too, boy. Here to drop off some ol' stuff a your mom's. The Wolverine pulls out a pendent from his pocket, a ring and several photographs, wrapped up and protected from the sun. He hands them to the man.

I remember these. From when I was child. How did you get them?

Yer old man gave 'em to me after your mom died. Dunno why. I figured you might want em.

The man nods and looks at him deeply. Why did you leave my mother, anyways? You know it was your absence that killed her.

Many years ago maybe Wolverine would've flinched at that. As it is, he merely quirks a brow.

Was it? I was told it was the Brotherhood. Marie didn't seem the type to die of a broken heart. And I left cause I had to leave. 'Sides, she and your dad were gettin' along just fine without me.

No, they weren't. She wasn't. And the reason she was out there was you. Looking for you. They said you'd been killed by Sabretooth, and she went looking. Found a band of Brotherhood's. Killed her on the spot. Father always blamed you.

Your father was prick, Snarls the Wolverine. His lip curls involuntarily and Julian laughs.

He was! No argument there, Wolverine. That's why you shouldn't have left my poor mother behind with him.

Wolverine shakes his shaggy head and steps down off the front steps, eyes darkened. What makes you think I wanted to leave, boy? What makes you think it wasn't _poor mother _who sent me away, huh? I woulda stayed behind if she'd had me. Woulda helped bring you up, even.

Julian tilts his head slightly, unperturbed. _Take what comfort you might in your sweet delusions, Logan. But know that my mother always loved you best. Even better than me. _Julian's mansion begins shrinking away into the distance, the man himself still standing in the doorframe with his haunting crimson eyes. _But know that I'll never forgive you for breaking her heart after you stole it. You're a thief and a murderer and if it weren't for your leaving she would've lived to be an old woman. Instead she spent her short life waiting for you to come home. _

The Wolverine just turns his back and walks away, used to Telepaths twisting around his shattered mind for years. He flips through a few photos he kept behind for himself, feeling satisfied and complete now that he'd carried out the Kid's wishes, damn her crazy son. Boy always took after his father, anyway.

His job is done.

_What are you gonna do when you run outta places to run to?_

This is where he ends up, tears bleeding from his eyes as he stands out in the frozen white while long tangles of color writhe across the horizon. No food and no water and no warmth, and he's finally waged a war where he don't know who will come out the victor -- a war against himself, Logan Vs. The Wolverine.

The strange shapes of Alaska have got some science behind it he's sure, but he's been around long enough to know better than that -- some things just are what they are, strange and inexplicable and beautiful all the same. Some things are better to appreciate than to explain.

He tries to remember all the people he's loved and can't. Storm, Scott, Chuck, Jeannie, the Kid. All names without faces. He spent a long time looking for his past. Then he'd been looking for life, rumbling through in his pick up truck and chasing after that sweet intangible thing he used to feel whenever he saw the Kid's face. And now he's just given up.

Well, he has come to his final stop. He figures if his body won't quit, then he will -- stay out here in the peaceful white for all eternity, watching spirits dancing in the sky in flashes of ruby and sapphire as his body sustains itself through sheer stubbornness alone.

Finally gonna stop moving.

He wishes she were here to see this. She always used to say he was a runner, a rambler -- rolling and rolling and rolling like the sea. Now he's finally stopped but she's already been gone a while.

Where is she, anyway? He can't imagine she's just a pile of dirt and bone. Up in heaven? Off in space? Reincarnated to some random stranger?

He likes to thinks she's right in front of him, inside of him; she's all the beautiful things he's ever seen. All the gentleness he's ever felt. All the love he's ever received. She all the good things in the world -- all the peace and sacrifice, all the reasons that war won't work and love, deep and penetrating and kind, always will. She's the reason all those bullets and rays are wasted effort, all those dollars spent on waging wars is as fruitless as the hate that fuels it; she's the reason that no bomb or bullet or Weapon of Mass Destruction could ever destroy that final, terrible Enemy we're always fighting: hope.

She's the reason that one life -- just one, any one, out of thousands and millions and billions -- one life is worth _everything._

He's getting cold now. His body is a rock, frozen through and through. Death is those sweet strips of color twisting and turning and writhing in front of him. Heaven is all this whiteness lying endlessly ahead.

The frozen world unfurling itself before his eyes, rippling out past infinity in nothing but spotless white and glorious shades of nameless color, is a womb, and he is ready to be birthed into silence.

Ready to die.

Been looking for a long, long while. Finally found it. Finally.

So it's time to stop moving.

_What are you gonna do when all the people you love die away?_

Join them. Join them.

Join them at last.

FIN.


End file.
